Harry Potter Drabbles
by butaneandthebeast
Summary: Little ficlets that I have collected over the years that I'm trying the courage to put up. Every chapter is it's own story, but it's marked incomplete so I can add more stuff should the need arise. The M rating is if I ever put up something Mature, but unless warned, every story is PG. Dramione & Tomione friendly. Oh, and please do tell me if you have a request!
1. Tickled Pink Dramione

"DRAACCOOOO!" The syllables of his name were dragged out by the loud cry, and he could hear the fear and panic that was in his wife's voice. Cursing, he dropped the baby manual he'd been reading on the sly, trying to get a more accurate grasp on what exactly changing a nappy entailed, as her rushed to her side. He hadn't _heard_ anything wrong. In fact, he could hear the baby giggling even now.

She was laying with her back propped up, hair a halo on the pillows. If it weren't for the distress on her bed as she eyed the baby that was in a crib attached to the side of the bed, she would have looked beautiful.

"What's the matter 'Mione?" He kept his voice steady, even. But his insides were like sheaves of papers in a thunderstorm. The Malfoys had never been very good with the whole child production thing. Centuries of near in-breeding did that to you.

Hermione didn't say anything, her brow creased and mouth open to make a small "o".

Draco turned to look at the newborn in the crib, only to see it it gurgling happily, fully fed, as it turned blue.

Not the pale blue one gets when they've been bereft of air, but really and truly a deep, navy, imperial blue.

They both stared.

Sensing the parental units giving their complete attention, the infant started turning her pale, pale blonde hair the same colour as her mother's, still cooing happy little sounds.

"Would you look at that!" Draco breathed, his voice holding a reverence people usually reserved for deities. He collapsed with a whump beside his wife, as his anxiety channelled into understanding, and felt his wife's head knock onto his shoulder with much of the same emotions.

"Lyra is a metamorphagus." Hermione muttered, her voice almost only intelligible because she was speaking the words into his skin.

"Well... it is in the family." He grinned, suddenly proud, as if he had moved mountains to achieve the feat.

In a way, he mused, he had.

"I suppose this necessitates another trip to the library?" She muttered wryly.

He shifted his body so that he could hug her, gathering her into his arms and resting his face in the crook of her neck. She could feel the grin that kept on growing impossibly wider. "But I think," he whispered, the huskiness of his voice sending shivers down her spine "a small celebration might be in order first."

* * *

For someone who is ridiculously nice and talented and doesn't deserve any of the shit that she gets.


	2. Assassin's Creed Dramione

When people come from wealthy families, they don't really expand on how they got there. Such things, ironically, are not to be discussed in polite company.

Mostly because of the violence involved. Mostly.

When Draco, scion of the Malfoy name, had been handed a chit of paper with the name Hermione Granger written on it, he had scarcely batted an eye. Any show of emotion was lethal to an assassin, worse yet, in front of his trainers. In a normal family they would be referred to as parents, but normal was quite a different set of rules altogether.

Desensitized or dead. It wasn't the family motto, but it might have well been.

'I assume you know who she is.'

'Yes.'

'Good.'

With that, he had risen and was out of the room.

Their conversations were spartan, precise.

Spartan could, in fact, actually describe his whole lifestyle.

* * *

When he crept into her perfumed room, he was sure she was asleep.

He never made errors in dosage.

So when he drew back her curtain and encountered a wide open pair of eyes, he almost stumbled. Almost.

No matter, he would put a knife to her and that would be it.

'What do you think you're doing?' The voice he heard was very soft, but very even. So she didn't want to awaken the maids.

Thoughtful.

Thoughtful was bad. Thoughtful was dangerous.

He made to slash her wrist, but found that not only had she, by now, gripped the blade fiercely, disregarding her palm, but that he was also, quire frankly, unable to move an inch.

His eyes widened, and she grinned. 'Took you long enough.'

She got up then, leisurely, and took the cords off the curtains. She easily bound his hands and feet and rolled- ROLLED- him behind several layers of gauzy curtains. As he was unmercifully barreled, he caught glimpses of Lacey underthings.

Had Draco any power over his body, he would have choked on his indignation. Not only was he, the scion of the most notorious of the assasin clans, been outwitted by a princess known for her lack of hand eye coordination, but he was being unceremoniously dumped within said princess' lingerie closet.

She patted his cheek pityingly. 'I'll let you out soon.' She said. 'But you would hate me even more if my governess were to find you here.'

Draco knew of her nanny.

He, sadly enough, was grateful.

* * *

At dawn, she let him go.

Correction.

She didn't just let him go.

She packed him a map with the most expedient routes for his escape outlined, as well as some sandwiches and a flagon of something.

Draco nearly choked again when he saw that.

Near death in a span of two days. She had been his most dangerous mission yet.

His only failed one too.

* * *

He couldn't go back to the manor. Going back meant death. Better to let them think his mission had been a fatal failure.

So he camped and wandered.

But he might as well have stood a stone statue. No matter what he did, all he could think about was her.

He glanced down at his shirt. A constant reminder that nothing I life came for free. Blood sucking armour that provided glamour and enhanced agility and protection.

Apparently nothing for inhaled paralyzing poisons.

He would have to make changes to that.

* * *

He went back.

It was stupid, he knew. It was risky, he knew. It was the one thing they were taught, in that unspoken way of theirs, never to do, he knew.

Why he was going? He never knew.

He crept up to her bed, the only thing not setting off deja vu the fact that this time he did not breathe the air around him, but one in his own bubble.

He drew back the curtain, met those eyes again.

"Come with me", he urged.

She did not answer. But she did not look aghast at the idea either.

Just bit her lip, and looked longingly at the shelves upon shelves of books that surrounded her.

"I'll take them all." He assured her. All for you. "Clothes too." The sun and the moon and the stars too.

She nodded.

A small part of his brain, the one which was what kept him alive, was perturbed at the way she threw herself at what she could possibly not understand as anything other than the enemy. She did not care whether she lived or died.

No matter, he thought. That will change, he thought. And for now, he thought, I care enough to more than make up for her behalf.

* * *

He had built a house, she mused. It's out of a story book she gasped, rummaging through her bag and opening a tome.

"You have that too." he mumbled.

"Always wanted the cottage", they both breathed simultaneously.

He taught her magic. Against every rule and every law that ever existed, he taught her. He taught her how he had warded the house- their house. Unplottable, unfindable, another realm pulled, borrowed, into theirs. She gasped and wondered, the same way she had when he had packed her room into a small sack.

But best of all, she learnt. Learnt so fast that he would be almost scared if he didn't love her.

* * *

Every day she tried. She read all the books provided, researched and tried every spell she could come across. She didn't know whether it was because her magic was too weak or that she was using a spell too off from the necessary, so that he could not feel it.

It didn't matter. All that mattered was that she had never seen his face.

She had never seen the face of the man she had fallen in love with.

It was like something out of a wretched story.

* * *

That day she'd finally had enough. He came in through the door, arms full of scented flowers, when a book came hurtling towards his head.

He didn't dodge.

She cried out, shrieked even louder when she saw the trickle of blood from the corner of his eye.

And then the blood suddenly vanished and she felt like an idiot for even caring. She crumpled where she stood, face in her hands as she let out great big sobs of anger and misery.

He dumped his fragrant load on the table, crouching in front of her even as he summoned the book to him, to see what could be causing the problem.

He noted the title. One on glamours.

'So you noticed.' His voice was quiet, almost resigned.

'How could I not?' Her voice was somewhere between anger and despair and indignation. 'The man I love, and I don't even know his face!' She was positively howling.

Man I love?

He nearly expired then and there, breath out of lungs and brain haemmorhaging.

He didn't even notice as her eyes went wide and she clapped her hands on her mouth.

She loved him.

He didn't even notice when she started babbling incoherently.

She loved him.

He didn't even notice when she started slapping herself.

She loved him.

He finally noticed when she started to fumble and get up, trying to summon things and nearly burying herself in the ensuing onslaught.

'I love you.' He said. His voice was still quiet.

She poked her head out of the mountain of things. He would have laughed if it weren't for his complete mental breakdown.

'I love you,' he continued, stronger this time, 'and if you want to see...'

He picked up a hand and brought it to his face, relishing in the contact of another human. Of her.

Slowly, carefully, he guided her to the edges of the mask, letting her peel it back, cool air hitting him inch by inch.

The look on her face when she reached the end nearly became the final twist of the dagger, so reverently did she look at him.

She took his face in her small hands, the scar on her palm gone from his healing.

He reveled in the warm touch. No one had touched his face for as long as he could remember.

He closed his eyes, and for the first time in his life, felt the hesitant touch of lips to his face.

And for the first time in life, he touched someone else's face with his own lips.

Just her's. Only her's. From today till forever, her's.

And they lived happily ever after.

* * *

Thank you all so much, especially to the people who left really kind words. I honestly really appreciate it. I was actually a bit overwhelmed because I've never had that many reviews in that short of a time frame before, so it was quite amazing. Big thank you to Colubrina to linking my fic. I am honoured. *hides face*

I had an assassin AU on my brain for the longest time, and initially I wanted to make it a cross-over with Aang where Draco is from the fire nation and Hermione is from the earth tribe, but then I found that that wasn't working TT_TT Then after that, it was smooth going until she took off the mask. Then I had no idea what to write. The ending is, hence, rubbish.

I normally have a bit of a difficult time writing, mainly because I read a lot. Reading is much easier than writing, and I am quite lazy. Secondly, I get easily influenced, and I often find myself writing in ways that are influenced by authors that I just read, and a lot of the times that feels a bit like plagiarism to me (technically it would be a pastiche though). The second part to this problem is that if I leave my writing for a bit and latch onto another piece to read, I can't always capture the same writing style, which makes everything seem disjointed.

For this fic, I tried a completely new style, and I'm not sure how unaffected it comes across as (looks quite affected to me). But, you know, I need to get over this fear of not showing my writing to anyone and letting it rot on my laptop.


	3. A Bitchslap A Day

A/N: This is a complete and utter crackfic because some nights I just lose my mind, and nimue just enables me further. So much further. I dislike it nimnim. I think.

* * *

"THE HELL IS YOUR PROBLEM MYRTLE? WHAT HAVE I EVER DONE TO YOU? THIS IS THE 73rd SLAP. THE SEVENTY-BLEEDING-THIRD SLAP I HAVE RECEIVED. WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?" Tom Riddle's voice went up with every syllable until it distinctly mirrored a tea kettle, and as much as you'd think that'd get a response, it didn't.

Not really.

He didn't know what her deal was, honestly speaking. He'd commented, once, on how she could mend her glasses with a repairing charm. He'd been genuinely nice, for once in his life, because hell, the mousy thing evoked some spark of leftover sympathy in him, being from the same orphanage and all that.

Instead, he'd gotten a slap for his pains, and then a slap for every day after that. 73 days in a row now.

He didn't really care about the slaps anymore. They'd become a part of the routine, in the same way he had to kiss Slughorn's arse or pretend to be decent human being. No one said the road to becoming the most powerful being was a pretty one.

No, his problem was that he was being obstructed.

See, snakes didn't really respect people who got slapped about. They smelt hierarchy the way bloodhounds smelt pheasants, and anyone beaten was just a rung lower than mice. To be eaten and spat out, parseltongue abilities be damned.

But Tom's middle name was perseverance. He'd legally petitioned, and his roster would show the change as soon as he turned seventeen. This interim he considered a trial run to show that yes, he really was worthy of it.

And so he worked on the gargantuan serpent, day in and day out, eaten and spat out.

Until one day, probably out of sheer exhaustion, the cold-blooded creature gave in and agreed to form a pact.

And he could hardly believe it.

He could hardly believe it to such an extent that he shot out of the cubicle backdoor in pure euphoria.

Euphoria undiminished until he body-slammed into Myrtle.

"I WILL TELL." Myrtle fumed, as she sat on his chest, her pure bulk keeping him pinned to the ground, sitting so solidly he may as well not have writhed. "I WILL TELL PROFESSOR RIGHT NOW. IN FACT, I WILL SUMMON HIM."

Professor Dumbledore, to his credit, did not blink at the tableau in front of him, opting to calmly offer a cough drop to each student in turn. Then, as quickly as he had come, he turned and tapped open the circle of sinks, disappearing into the depths of the cavern.

A few moments later, Tom heard what sounded like a dying hiss. It was difficult to translate in English, and the closest he could get it across as, if ever he was pigeonholed into doing so would be "Vile-piece-of-horse-shit-from-the-eighth-planet-that-orbits-Betelgeuse-who-irritates-creatures-big-and-small-into-forming-pacts-while-delusional-and-makes-everyone-else-including-powerful-and-nearly-extinct-creatures-suffer-for-it." Only it was a thousand times ruder, and meaner, and really containing more curse words than exist in the length and breadth of any human language.

The hiss cut Tom deep.

It still cuts Tom deep.

No one can become He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named after being the Vile-piece-of-horse-shit-from-the-eighth-planet-that-orbits-Betelgeuse-who-irritates-creatures-big-and-small-into-forming-pacts-while-delusional-and-makes-everyone-else-including-powerful-and-nearly-extinct-creatures-suffer-for-it.

* * *

"Very good, Mr. Riddle." The therapist clapped the diary shut. "I am glad you're taking time to introspect and find out why you didn't become the Dark Lord, and live up to your potential, as you put it." She proffered the book back to him. "Unfortunately, we are out of time for this session, but next session, we can begin to analyze this entry. Your homework for next session is to see if you can add any other details to this particular arc of your life."

"Thank you, Ms. Granger."

"Not at all, Mr. Riddle. After all, most of us have a deep, dark secret or two." The bushy-haired doctor smiled, idly stroking the small hourglass she kept on her desk as paperweight.


	4. Pain Before Pleasure

A birthday gift- belated or perhaps extraordinarily early- for nimue, idiot child, but my own.

* * *

She had his hand wrapped around his jaw, thrusting it back enough that his neck was bared, exerting enough pressure that the already pale skin whitened to a deathly pallor.

"Your useless noble idiocy," She snarled, her nose inches away from his, "is something that I would not allow, even if I were the one to dictate that."

"But you-" he ground his words out through much pain, loathe as he was to admit that a woman's bare hand could cause him so much pain, "your house-"

"Is no business of yours. I am my own, no one else's, and whom I choose to love is no one's business but my own."

"But I-"

"Tell me if you do not want to be with me, and I will let you free. But if you, once again, state some social construct, a boundary- imaginary- that divides us when I- the one with the power you so eagerly point out- I, have agreed, then the pain that I vise you in will be sweet compared to what you face." She tightened her grip ever so slightly, an imaginary feeling of relief before she tightened it once again, even tighter than before. "Well? What say you now?"

"I- I have no other reason."

"Good." she purred, loosening her hand enough that the pain lifted, enough so that she could cover his lips with hers, devour him, inhale him, let her be the very air he breathed, let her be all that he existed on, even as she settled into his lap, moulding her body to his. "I'm so glad to know we're on the same page."

* * *

I've also started writing a longer fic, a Dramione one. But I am a bit wary to post it unless people really want to read it, and tell me so, contradictorily vain and shy creature that I am. It's somewhat of a re-write of HP, to use the term very loosely, an AU in which all the events including and after the last part of the Goblet of Fire never ever happened. So let me know if you think it'd be anything worth reading, and I shall post the first chapter up anon~


	5. Vergnügungen

A/N: Some fluff to tide you through those sad days and tiring days. This was written for someone I'm currently a bit miffed at, so I won't mention who she is. She knows.

By the by, I am writing a few longer stories, so I won't be posting them to drabbles. Please do come over and read them. And since I'm writing them by the seat of my pants, please do throw any suggestions you want at me. If used, you'll have an honourable mention and of course, a story tailored somewhat to your liking~

The following is a series of drabbles inspired by the poem **Vergnügungen** by **Bertolt Brecht.** The original bold is the poem, and the italics underneath, the translations. Brecht wrote in an era around the end of WWII, and sometimes his poetry is very fitting for what I imagine as the aftermath. This one, however, is pure and utter fluff about the happier things in life that some days we just take for granted, and we shouldn't, really, because they give us solace when solace is such a hard commodity to come by.

A final note. A paragraph or two might be a 15+. Please read with caution ^^

* * *

 **Vergnügungen**

 _Pleasures_

 **Der erste Blick aus dem Fenster am Morgen**

 _First look from morning's window_

He woke up to an empty bed, arm blindly patting the spot where he would normally find her, and instead only finding warmed sheets. He turned his head to look, and saw her sat in the window, bundled in his old sweater as she listened to the patter of the rain as the sky grew lighter.

Sensing him, she turned and smiled, reaching an arm out to beckon him.

He smiled sleepily as he rose, dragging the blankets with him. She scooted over to make place for him, and he wrapped both of them in the soft flannel, dropping kisses on her head.

* * *

 **Das wiedergefundene Buch**

 _The rediscovered book_

'Is this Matilda?' She asked excitedly, as she tore the gift wrap off the book with abandon.

'First edition, signed by Dahl himself.' He smirked his way through an answer. She squealed, and in a movement too quick for his eyes to follow, launched herself at him so that they both collapsed into the gigantic leather armchair.

'Thank you!' She was giddy with excitement and found that the only way she could come close to adequately showing how much she loved him was by peppering kisses to his face non-stop.

'I think I can get the idea' he grinned wryly, as if he completely did not adore the onslaught.

* * *

 **Begeisterte Gesichter**

 _Fascinated faces_

They both sat in the coffee shop, and he was making hmms and ahs and other various voices of affirmation, as if he was really listening to everything she was saying.

And he wanted to, really, cultural comparisons had always fascinated him since his marriage.

But her face was even more fascinating, and as try as he might he could not wrench his attention away from the way her eyes widened and creased alternatingly, or the way her lips moved. He could not stop admiring the spark in her eyes and the way that her hair caught the light, glowing browns and goldens and making her look like she had her own personal sun. His eyes would not stop roving over the creamy skin. He had tried once, tried twice, by the third, he had resigned himself to his fate.

The headlines were going to read, man dies in accident due after being blinded by wife's beauty.

* * *

 **Schnee, der Wechsel der Jahreszeiten**

 _Snow, the change of the seasons_

"Wake up wake up wake up!"

He had groaned and turned away, feeling victimized because he knew she knew he had only come to bed at 4.

"Wake up, it is snowing!" Her voice caught in the excitement, and he warily opened one bleary eye.

He caught her wrist with one hand and dragged her into bed, caging her in his arms and wrapping the blankets around them with practiced ease.

"Just half an hour more," he had mumbled, "half an hour more".

* * *

 **Die Zeitung**

 _The newspaper_

He ironed the newspaper. Even she with her various little habits in reading had found it a bit amusing at first, to see a grown man iron the newspaper. When she had tried asking him, he bad refused to explain, sniffing and muttering darkly about philistines.

Much later, one night, he had sleep talked, spitting out syllables about how harassed he was in this new world, all alone, with no one who understood that the newspaper had to be ironed so the ink wouldn't rub off onto fingers and tables, and that, besides, that's what made it smell good and rustle properly, dammit.

* * *

 **Der Hund**

 _The dog_

" No! You can't! " he had scooted away so far so fast that she had to smother a laugh.

" Don't tell me you're scared of a puppy!"

"No! But animals hate me."

"This one won't."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

He had scooted closer then, assured by her words.

* * *

 **Die Dialektik**

 _Dialectics_

"So you don't think perpetual motion is possible?"

"No, not in it's truest sense, it's not."

"Why?"

"Including or excluding the rational arguments?"

"Start with the irrational ones and then we'll work ourselves up to a smidgen of sense."

"Because it's terrifying."

"Somehow, I did not think that was a word to be used with theoretical physics, and yet, it being you, I am not surprised. Terrifying how?"

"Could you imagine, a task that needs be done again and again, constantly, forever?"

"I could."

"That was awful. Did you think that line would really work on me? Especially with that smirk?"

"Why, didn't it?"

"Just a little bit."

* * *

 **Duschen, Schwimmen**

 _Showering, swimming_

They had a pool now. A pool with a small waterfall hidden on almost all sides that flowed into a miniature lagoon, a little haven that she had gifted him on a birthday that he could scarcely forget.

But the greatest gift that had come from the present was one that kept on giving, even as he peeked at the bathing nymph like a greek boy of legends, destined to be caught by the bathing beauty and subject to numerous punishments.

Now that punishments had a new meaning.

* * *

 **Alte Musik**

 _Old music_

She looked through the posts of the stairs having padded down noiselessly to see why an errant husband had not yet come back to bed. She crouched down and watched the scene unfold before her eyes like a hazy dream. She saw the transistor on, a soft warble coming from the grill mesh even as he held the baby and paced, crooning the song sotto voce, his eyes half lidded, his slippers shuffling over the kitchen floor. He rocked the baby gently, holding the bottle just so. She watched and watched and watched until she was lulled to sleep, there on the stairs themselves, as uncomfortable as they were. And there, the scene before her eyes continued.

* * *

 **Bequeme Schuhe**

 _Comfortable shoes_

He looked at their shoe cupboard as he cast an enlarging spell for the umpteenth time, even as he wondered at where his good sense had gone. _They are good shoes,_ her voice echoed in her head. _Good shoes. Shoes with memories. Please let me keep them._ She had fingered an old leather shoe so reverently that it gave him half a mind to be jealous.

And that's where he stood some days.

Jealous of a shoe.

He closed the shoe cupboard and walked away.

* * *

 **Begreifen**

 _Comprehension_

"What do you mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean, love."

"But... marriage...?"

"Marriage. Yes?"

"Yes. Ok. I think."

* * *

 **Neue Musik**

 _New music_

The beat of the club made the very air throb, and he held her close enough to her that not a hair's breadth could pass between them. And he felt her body on his, the friction making him struggle for air, and so he commandeered them to one of those ubiquitous dark corners, trapping her against the wall and placing one leg between both of hers, raising it up so she came up to match his height, allowing his to devour her. He broke off, concentrating even as her hands roved over his body, letting her land on the soft mattress, even the normally vile jerk of their transportation adding to the already heady sensory feast before him. He'd managed to bring the music with him, a raw passionate rhythm that allowed them to try something new.

* * *

 **Schreiben, Pflanzen**

 _Writing, planting_

"What are you ripping out?"

"Weeds...?"

"Those are the strawberry cuttings, you daft woman!"

"...Would you like to see the bag...?"

"MY ROSE CUTTINGS!"

"Come now, there's no need to sink to the floor so dramatically like that."

"Go away."

"...ok."

"Why are you back? What are you doing with that?"

"Writing. Drawing."

"Writing and drawing what?"

"Which ones aren't weeds and which ones are."

"Honestly..."

* * *

 **Reisen**

 _Traveling_

"We'll throw the dart," she said, "and where it lands, that's where we'll go."

"Then maybe neither of us will get out way."

"Exactly. So?"

"Ok."

"Hey! You messed with the board."

"No."

"Then why're we going to where you suggested?"

"Because the universe knows I'm right."

* * *

 **Singen**

 _Singing_

He rolled over and put the pillow over his head as she sang, opening the curtains like she was the heroine of a fairy tail.

"That is not how the tune goes." He grumbled.

"Then you sing it."

She had to admit, even his half-asleep rumblings sounded better than her.

* * *

 **Freundlich sei**

 _Being friendly_

The little girl ran up to her, clinging to her knees as she picked tomatoes and added the ones that passed muster to the troublesome little plastic bag, and she bent down to hug her back. She was adorable, black ringlets falling all around her face as she looked up with adoring eyes, even as her harassed mother ran behind her, calling out to her. She gave the little girl a kiss on the cheek, picking her up and walking towards her mother so she wouldn't have to walk as much. The lady thanked her profusely for the return of her errant child, and she could only assure her that really, she didn't mind at all, and that it was a pleasure, and that she was lucky to have a little one like her.

And the little interlude kept her smiling for the rest of the week.


	6. Process of Elimination

"We've tried everyone," the frog croaked miserably. "Every single human in the predicted area, and nothing. Are you sure you scryed correctly?" If croaks could be piteous this would be it.

"Yes, yes I did." The reply was slightly irritated, the words trying to calm themselves even as they left her mouth.

"This can't be right."

"I know. I'm trying to think. There must be someone we've missed. Someone, maybe in our friends... Or... No wait, your parents can't be your soulmate. You made the guys kiss you too right?"

"Every even slightly warm bod- oh!" The grousing was cut by a sudden exclamation.

"Oh what?"

"No. No, it's nothing." His voice was barely above a whisper, and it was obvious in it's attempt to deceive.

"Shut up and tell me."

"No, really, it's nothing."

"Listen, I'm counting to three before I reacquaint you with the sole of my boot."

"It's you ok!? You. You're the only one I haven't kissed. You're the only one who ticks all the boxes whom I haven't kissed."

"Draco?"

"Yeah?"

"C'mere."

"Wow." The voice was slightly dazed and dreamy, and there was a slight rasp of disuse to it. "You wanna do that again?"

An equally soft voice giggled back. "Yeah."

* * *

A/N: A tiny drabble for a tiny announcement ~^^ I've started a few new stories: A Dramione one, a Tomione one, and a Blaise x Padma one (does that pairing even have a name?). I know you're all probably very skeptical, but it would mean the world to me if you would check them out and comment and critique and all that good stuff 3 I've been a bit busy lately, as I went back to school briefly, finished a teaching diploma, and got a job in China. *Now* I have to deal with paperwork and moving. So really, your comments will be the push behind my back and spring to my step as I trudge from embassy to embassy and sign document after document *u*


	7. Créme or Ecru

"Why are we doing this again?" There's a whine to that question that only comes from asking the same what-was-meant-to-be-rhetorical-but-now-i'm-seriously-wondering question a few thousand times without receiving a satisfactory answer.

"Because", and there's an edge to this tone, an edge because this question whether rhetorical or real has been answered in what is the most satisfactory-or at least-the most factual manner, and yet this twit refuses to actually shut up, "Because you're under protective custody, and since I'm the only human who can exist in your presence without thoughts of self-annihilation, here I stand, your assigned bodyguard, to guard and to cherish until someone much smarter than me finally takes me out of my misery and ends you."

"No no", and now the whine is gone and replaced by a slow smirk she doesn't actually need to see to know that it's growing in situ, "I mean why are we here, buying" -he gestures expansively at the warehouse in front of them- curtains and crockery.

There's a muffled grump of rage that starts something that ends with someone laughing and someone having to pay the warehouse more money than originally budgeted for, but that's another story for another time.


End file.
